In an ancient theatre of conflict, a traveller finds peace and good neighbourliness
You’re from Bombay? So what? You are like my brother!” Our guide’s voice rasps out through the lobby of the Eagles Nest Hotel in Pakistan’s Hunza valley. We had got through another Pakistani military checkpoint on our 1,250 km drive on the Karakoram Highway, from Islamabad to the Chinese border at Khunjerab, and I had just told him to keep my origins to himself.
Ali, the dry-fruit seller, delivers ceaseless commentary on passing historical and cultural sights: Here a bridge destroyed by floods in 1995 and rebuilt by the Chinese; there a shrine to a local pir (saint) and a fort that fended off a British invasion in 1891. The bus stops at a roadside dhaba. We try a chapshuro — spiced minced lamb and cheese roasted in a fresh naan — which is delicious. Ali doesn’t let me pay. He invites us to dinner, writing down his address in our Lonely Planet.
We spend the night by the Hunza River in Passu, a small village overshadowed by the mouth of a spiny glacier and Tupopdan, a dramatic cathedral of spire-shaped rocks. The cavernous, dimly lit dining space of the Soviet-inspired hotel is not welcoming. The food is oily and unappetising, but the Chinese beer is refreshing, and our host, Ahmed, is worldly and wise. My Indian identity opens a reservoir of goodwill. We talk about social isolation in big cities, where offering a ride to strangers is rare. Growing up in Passu, Ahmed and his friends rolled burning rubber tires down the slopes at night. The mountains create an unbearable urge, he explains, to escape the mental cage imposed by the high horizon and the narrow valley. Pyromania is suddenly understandable. Ahmed refuses payment and the night leaves a lump in my heart as we part with yet another stranger who opened his arms to us.
(This story appears in the 02 July, 2010 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)